by Aldrea Alien
“Aye,” Hamish continued. “I wasnae much younger than you. Your mum was just a wee bit better than Sorcha is now and she was always dragging me down here. Didnae matter how hard they tried, I just couldnae do it.”
Whilst the wariness remained, a glimmer of curiosity danced across his face. “What changed?”
“I tried one more time.” He recalled the day of his first centre-hit quite clearly. Seven years of age, frustrated and harassed almost beyond reason, his thoughts had been only on the target and getting it right, even if it was just the once. He couldn’t explain how, but it had all just fallen into place and he’d been able to down his targets on the first hit ever since.
Hamish gently pressed the bow into Mac’s hand. “That’s all I’m asking of you. One more and I promise I’ll nae ask you to do it again if you nae want to.”
“He’s nae going to listen to you,” Bruce piped up. Both the older boy and Ethan had abandoned their own training to lean against the range border wall. “Even granddad cannae get him to try when he gets this worked up.”
That sounds familiar. He had rather strong memories of his father attempting to teach him and giving up in the face of his stubbornness. “Then it’s a good thing I’m nae his granddad. And you two should be practising as well.” He pinned them both with a hard look until they returned to their previous spots. “Now, what do you say, lad? One more?”
Sullen brown eyes continued to watch him. Mac’s fingers twitched along the bow’s leather grip. The bow dangled in his grasp, but at least he hadn’t let go of it.
“Come on.” Hamish grinned. “Just once for your favourite uncle.”
Huffing, Mac plucked an arrow from the ground. He pulled back on the bowstring. “See?” The bow did indeed wobble in his grip. His fingered tightened, knuckles paling as he fought to keep the arrow steady.
“That’s because you’re holding on too hard, lad.” The bow was a simple recurve, the type most of the hunters around Mullhind used. “You’re stronger than your bow, you dinnae need to fight him. Relax your grip some.”
“I’ve tried,” Mac insisted, his jaw setting stubbornly. “It willnae work.”
“Trust me.”
Muttering what Hamish was certain had been a few breathless curses, Mac finally loosed the arrow.
Hamish held his breath, all his focus trained on the arrow. It wobbled along its path, reaching the height of its arc a quarter of the way down the range. Not enough. It didn’t need to hit a decent mark, or even reach much farther than the foot of the target. Anything less and Mac would give up on archery completely. He wouldn’t be allowed to leave on hunts without that training.
The arrow straightened, sailing down the range in a flat line to bury itself into the centre of the target.
“I did it!” Mac crowed, bouncing in a small circle and flapping his arms like a startled chicken.
Hamish frowned. “So, you did,” he murmured. But how? There was no logical reason the arrow should’ve reached the target, but the proof sat deep in the straw, trembling slightly in the cool breeze. “Good job, lad.” He absently patted his nephew on the back.
“That was awesome!” Ethan barrelled into his younger brother, almost knocking Mac off his feet. “Did you see the way it flew?” He clasped Mac’s head, his brown eyes wide as he pressed their foreheads together. “Can you do it again?”
“I dinnae ken,” Mac drawled.
“Seems like a fluke to me,” Sorcha muttered, prodding Ethan away from his brother with the end of her bow. She snatched up one of Mac’s discarded arrows and stared down its length. “Or a trick. Nae arrow flies like that. Have you been holding out on us, Maccy me lad?”
The boy hunched his shoulders, rubbing at one arm. “I—”
“Got a few extra skills up our sleeves? Or are you going to keep telling me it’s just more plain luck for the lucky duck?”
Hamish laid a hand on his niece’s shoulder, stilling her. “That’s enough.” Mac was clearly uncomfortable with his cousin’s line of questioning. And well he should be being that Sorcha was borderline accusing him of being a spellster. “We’ve all had our share of luck, lass. Doesnae mean foul play.”
“Some more luck than others,” she muttered. He didn’t blame her for being a touch bitter. Ever since her mother’s death, she had to fight hard to get her grandmother’s permission to train, to be seen as something more than the fragile and precious next in a long line of rulers. Even then, it’d taken her father threatening to train her in secret for her grandmother to relent.
“Aye, some people do get more.” His younger sister, Caitlyn, seemed to have copious amounts of luck allocated to her. At least, back before she had been forced to protect him from the bandits attempting to take both their lives. Decades later and he could still recall the furnace heat of the inferno her untrained magic had brought to their defence.
And it was true that the boys seemed to have the Goddess’ good fortune smile upon them a fair bit, especially when together. But the same could’ve been said of Gordon and himself when they were young.
Sorcha harrumphed.
Hamish fixed his niece with a stern glare. “Lass, are you questioning the Goddess’ judgement on who is worthy of what?” Even as he asked, he knew what her answer would be.
Her brows lowered as those big eyes glared right back at him, the inherited dual stubbornness of her parents sparking to light in their green depths. Then she glanced away and, with her lips barely moving, managed to mutter, “Nae, uncle.”
“Right.” Giving her a firm nod, he gently ushered his niece towards her previous position before the targets. “Back to it, lads,” he shot over his shoulder.
Mac scooped up another arrow and, with his chest puffed out, returned to his training. His brothers flanked him, no doubt trying to figure out how he had managed the last attempt.
Hamish also kept his attention casually trained on the boy. Sorcha was right; arrows just didn’t fly like that. But Mac was eight years old. Surely any sign of magic would’ve made itself known by now. From what he had heard about the cloistered spellsters, most had been around four or five.
Caitlyn had been found out at eight, but had shown some proficiency in what she had done, meaning she must’ve been of similar age when her magic manifested.
“So,” said a familiar musical voice, “is this how Tirglasians occupy themselves?”
Hamish turned on his heel to find the Udynean ambassador leaning against the range wall. “I thought you were meant to be negotiating with me mum?” Just how long had Darshan been there? Was his magic the reason the arrow had reached the target? That would explain things, not that it would help the boy in the long run.
“I was,” Darshan replied with the tilt of his head. “And we were, I believe, making some headway into it. At least, up until a man marched in blathering on about boars, some farmer and fences.” His brow lowered, twisted slightly in puzzlement. “Your mother went off muttering words I failed to catch. Your name was amongst them.”
Hamish winced. After meeting Darshan, he had forgotten all about Ewan and his fences. He had thought the steward would’ve seen to all the necessary paperwork required to compensate the man’s family. Apparently not. I’m going to get such a tongue-lashing. Especially once his mum learnt he had spent the afternoon wandering the city alone with the ambassador instead of tending to his duties.
He slowly became aware of the presence of small bodies behind him. The boys milled at his back, all eyeing Darshan with the same level of expectancy they had displayed at last night’s dinner. They nudged each other and whispered amongst themselves, their voices just on the edge of hearing.
“You ask him,” Bruce said, shoving Mac forward.
“You’re the oldest,” the other boy objected. “You ask him.”
Around the three of them went, badgering one another to step forward.
“I believe I told you lot you get back to your archery practise,” Hamish shot over his shoulder. They would
n’t have much longer here before other duties called them.
Darshan chuckled. He leant to one side, peering around Hamish. “Seems like one of you better ask me soon before you lose your chance.”
Ethan stepped forward, blushing and clearing his throat as he clutched his bow before him like a shield. His chubby, brown face stared up in awe at Darshan. “Is it true that you’re a spellster? We heard that everyone in Udynea has magic and—”
The ambassador laughed. “Not every one, dear boy. Magic is a thing of bloodlines and breeding. It is not like your bows. You cannot teach such a skill to all.”
Hamish frowned. Bloodlines? How did that explain his sister when there were no other spellsters in his family?
Ethan nodded, as he’d been doing since Darshan first spoke. His fingers danced nervously on his bow grip. “Are you?” He glanced back at his brothers as Darshan bowed his head. “We were wondering if you could… That is—” His head snapped back around with enough speed that Hamish was almost convinced it would break. “Can you really shoot fire from your fingers?”
Smirking, Darshan flipped his hand with a dramatic flourish. A flame flashed to life in his palm. It snaked and twirled, slowly forming the shape of a person, a man. Just the torso, but it waved its wispy arms as it swayed from side to side in some sort of dance.
Mac inched forward. He reached out, one finger extended towards the fire.
“Do not touch.” Raising his other hand before him in warning, Darshan withdrew his hand. The form of the dancing man dissipated into ordinary fire. “It will burn you as quickly as any other flame.” With another, more exaggerated, flourish of his hand, the spellster snuffed the flame completely.
Ethan brushed at where the fire had been, then his brothers and cousin joined in. All that remained was a thin wisp of smoke as evidence of it ever being there. Hamish couldn’t help but wonder if the flame had actually heated the air. He hadn’t felt anything. Or was the heat more subtle, like a candle?
Sorcha turned to face Darshan. Unlike the boys, curiosity had cloaked her in a sheet of courage. She cradled his hand, examining the palm. “If it burns things, then why didnae it burn your hand?”
Darshan smiled, weathering both unasked-for contact and question with equal grace. “Because, dear girl, it is mine and what is yours does no harm to you. Once it touches something it can burn, then I am a touch more vulnerable. But I have means to counteract the inevitable.”
“Meanwhile,” Hamish said before either of the children could bombard the man with more questions. Darshan might be good-natured about it now, but that could change as swiftly as a rain cloud. “You four will inevitability run out of time to do more training.”
“But—” Ethan began to whine, halting when Hamish held up a finger.
“There’ll be none of that, lad. He’s nae going to vanish in a puff of smoke once your back is turned.”
The boy eyed Darshan as if he wasn’t entirely convinced that couldn’t happen. Hamish wasn’t certain of it himself. The sailors were always bringing strange stories of magical feats. Sifting the truth from the tall tales was often a mission in itself.
“Go on, see if you cannae get a few more into the target before you’re off to Mrs Maggie.”
Groaning, the trio returned to their practise. Sorcha remained at Hamish’s side, her quiver empty and the target full.
Darshan seemed to eye the boys with a smidgen of curiosity. His gaze flicked from them to Hamish. “Yours I trust?”
Hamish blinked, then laughed as he realised what the man was asking. It had to be the hair. It was always the hair. He had the same colour, but the boys had inherited their flaming curls from their sun-tanned, freckled-faced father. “These wee bairns? Nae.” He hoisted his niece, the smallest of the children despite being the eldest, onto his shoulder. “Sorcha here is me brother’s daughter. The rest of the terrors are nephews on me sister’s side.” He smiled fondly at the three boys all lined up before their targets. For once, Mac seemed to be putting the proper amount of effort into the task.
“Who are you calling wee?” protested a voice at his ear. Sorcha still didn’t weigh much, having taken after her rather petite mother.
Although, having seen them next to the spellster, Hamish was sharply reminded of just how tall all the children had grown over the past year.
“I’m almost as tall as me mum,” Sorcha continued. “And I can shoot a bow just as well as she could!”
“Aye, lass. That you can.” Like her daughter, Muireall had made up for her lack of size in attitude. Hamish was certain her sheer commanding presence was why his brother had fallen for the woman, especially when his marriage to her brought little in the way of a connection to a strong clan. He set Sorcha back on her feet. “But she also would’ve collected her arrows by now. Make sure the rest do as well.”
With an excessively toothy grin, she trotted over to the boys. A few quiet words were all it took to have them running for their targets, urging each other on with taunts of reaching theirs first.
Hamish glanced towards the sunrise, shading his eyes with a hand. The light had crept over the outer castle wall, meaning it had to midmorning. “Hurry up, you four, then shift your bums to Mrs Maggie for your lessons. You dinnae want to be late again.”
Laughter and the clatter of discarded weapons answered him, followed swiftly by the thunderous pounding of booted feet as all four of them raced by.
The spellster continued to side eye Hamish as the last of the four ran out of sight. “You have children of your own, though?”
Hamish shook his head as he gathered the bows and now-filled quivers.
The answer had the man’s brows lifting. “Really? I know my lack of understanding when it comes to your culture is less than thorough, but—”
“Did they nae give you lessons?” Hamish enquired, shouldering the quivers and heading for the armoury. “I wouldnae have thought they’d let you be an ambassador without some idea of the people you were to deal with.”
Darshan smiled, tagging along. “I am endeavouring to close the gaps in my knowledge, have no fear there. Nevertheless, I do know that your people marry at a young age and tend to have a great many children.”
“Oh, aye. Me mum would very much prefer if I followed that tradition.”
“But you have chosen not to? No children? No… wife?”
Hamish shook his head.
Darshan halted in the middle of the courtyard. “If you will excuse me?” The man was already making for the castle door before Hamish could enquire further.
~~~
The door to the empty room clicked shut. Darshan leant back on it, barely seeing the shelves of books lining the walls. He had come here only because he didn’t think himself capable of remembering the way to the guest room, much less making the journey.
His heart hammered, his thoughts twirling off into multiple spirals of possibilities. He needed to slow down, to think straight.
No wife. That thought ran through his mind the loudest. He latched onto it, trying to anchor himself, only to be caught by an eddy of questions and suppositions.
Did that mean what he thought? Could it? Whilst his tutors had taught him everything they believed he would need to know during the journey, there were only so many hours in a day and so much knowledge a mind could handle.
Nevertheless, he knew that a lack of wife or child at Hamish’s age would be rare indeed without good cause. And there were a limited number of reasons as to why not.
Could it be that Hamish preferred men? Tirglasians had a peculiar notion about men enjoying each other, a distinct aversion to the idea if his father could be believed, but it would be foolish indeed to think there were none such as himself in an entire kingdom.
Still, for a prince to be that way inclined…
No. He was clearly reading too much into it. Why, he had gotten none of the usual signals from the man in that regard. All this was far more likely to be nothing but idle hope in the face of blind lust.
He couldn’t do that to himself again. Hamish certainly didn’t deserve to be dragged into Darshan’s self-inflicted implosion.
Then again…
Frowning, Darshan tipped his head back against the door. This wasn’t Udynea. What passed for a signal there would be far too blatant here. And Hamish might not even be aware of it himself or, far more likely, in denial over his attractions.
There was really only one real way to be sure and, ordinarily, he would just outright ask whatever man he had taken a fancy to if they were likewise inclined. Doing so here ran the risk of having his teeth knocked in.
He pushed off the door, pacing between it and the thick wooden table filling the centre of the room, absently toying with his rings at each turn. What to do? His curiosity wouldn’t simply leave it be. He had to know one way or the other.
He would have to be careful, though. Subtle. Hamish seemed a laid back sort, but he didn’t want to offend the man.
Perhaps if he got Hamish alone, like out in the city. A neutral place where the man felt comfortable. Somewhere like—
One of those pubs of theirs. Hamish had pointed out a few on their excursion around Mullhind. They could tuck themselves into some quiet corner. A little alcohol would help loosen the man’s tongue; in a multitude of ways should his hunch prove correct. And should his gentle questioning turn sour, he could always shamelessly blame it on the drink.
But when? He halted, staring blindly at the door. That was a harder decision. He had his duties and Hamish no doubt had responsibilities of his own to attend. Would an evening stint raise too many brows? What of during the day? It was custom amongst the desert tribes in Stamekia for alcohol to only be shared amongst family and lovers during the day. Did Tirglas have any such taboo?
His gaze slid to the books, then the shelves, before moving on to finally take in the room. He was alone, mercifully. Large windows filled the wall to his left and a pair of low-backed chairs had been positioned near them to maximise the light. Had he stumbled upon the castle’s library? He should’ve realised by the smells of leather, parchment and the dry dust of a room kept warm.
